Just Remember The Good Times
by Justonestory
Summary: When John and Sherlock are on a food run during the zombie apocalypse, John sports an injury that costs him his life. DO NOT READ IN PUBLIC! No Johnlock. Just buddies.


"Sherlock."

"There has to be a way! Something! I-I can—"

""It's okay." Soothed the older man. "I won't feel a thing."

*10 minutes earlier*

The dead were quickly approaching. It wasn't supposed to work out this way. John and Sherlock were on a run for food at the store. Anything canned, anything dry, any kind of water. That was the routine they typically followed. They'd been following it for months.

Sherlock trotted along the aisles, he stopped at the crackers. Reading the expiration date on them and chucking them into a red basket hanging off the crook of his arm.

"SHERLOCK!" John's cry echoed across the store, followed by gunshots. He ran as fast as he could, weaving through the aisles. "JOHN!"

John was on the floor wrestling a gruesome body snapping at his face. Sherlock grabbed the gun off the tile floor and fired, aiming perfectly at the head, killing it with one shot. John crawled out from under the body and leaned back on the shelves.

"Christ…" John sighed, smiling. "Never gonna get used to that."

"Probably shouldn't," Sherlock chuckled and handed John the gun back. Then offered him a hand up. John accepted and stood, hissing and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Army wound?" Sherlock asked.

"Ah, no… I-I don't—" John pulled back the lapel of his shirt. John closed his mouth and tightened his lips.

Blood was blossoming through the shirt, and two marks were on John's skin, one right above the other. "I think… I got bit." He looked up at Sherlock and sighed deeply.

Sherlock stared and inhaled shakily, before replying, "No."

"Sherlock."

"No. You're going to be fine. We-we can amputate." Sherlock dropped the basket and pulled the shirt back more.

"Sherlock, it's right next to my neck. I'd be dead in seconds," John laughed, choosing not to say the fact that he's already practically dead.

"Then we'll clean the wound with alcohol. You're going to be fine, John."

"You know that won't work."

"It will."

"Sherlock, it won't."

"It will."

"Sherlock, be sensi—"

"I AM BEING SENSIBLE!" Sherlock shouted, shoving John and staring at him desperately. John let the quiet go on for a few moments so Sherlock could calm.

"Go," John said.

"What?"

"Go, just leave me the gun there's only one more bullet in it now. And you've got that knife, you're better than I am at using it anyway." Sherlock stared open-mouthed.

"No, no! No, I'm staying with you. W-we'll figure something out."

"Sherlock. There is nothing you can do. Just go." Sherlock grabbed the gun from John's belt and threw it, letting it clatter along the floor, then bit his glove and paced in front of John.

John stared at Sherlock with a serious expression. "That doesn't change things. Just go, Sherlock."

Sherlock kicked the basket at the rotting corpse. Then yelled and began kicking the corpse over, and over, and over. John hung his head and bit his lip, allowing the man his frustration.

The brutal kicking stopped with a hard stomp and the sound of a skull cracking. Sherlock collapsed against a wall, breathing hard and staring at John.

"I've had my years. Older than you." John smiled weakly at him."

Sherlock just stared back through grey-blue eyes.

"Sherlock."

"There has to a way! Something! I-I can—" Sherlock indicated his hands at something with tears in his eyes.

"It's okay, I won't feel a thing," his voice broke at the end.

Sherlock looked back at John open mouthed, pleading. "John…"

"Go."

"I'm not leaving you."

"You're being stupid."

"I don't care."

"Get out of here you bloody idiot!" John shouted, then closed his eyes. "No… no… I didn't—I didn't mean that." He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked back at Sherlock.

"Hold on," Sherlock quickly stood and left the aisle, but not before taking the gun with him. John collapsed on the floor and leaned on the shelves again. When Sherlock came back he was carrying a bottle of wine and two plastic cups.

"Only the cheap stuff was left." Sherlock set the two cups on the floor and poured. Then handed one to John.

John took it with a chuckle. "Thanks."

Sherlock toasted John and sat next to him. They drank in silence, neither speaking, for the fear of crying.

Several minutes passed before John set the cup down on the floor. "Sherlock…"

"Hm?"

"It's starting to hurt and… I can't see very well." Sherlock looked at John.

"It's the disease. It manifests itself in the brain. Sight would be one of the first things to go."

"Oh, nice."

Sherlock looked at the floor. "So… judging by the others, you have 20 minutes… left." The last word was broken.

"Go." John said for the fourth time. "Just, remember the good times, eh? Before this all started." John looked in the direction of Sherlock, his eyes were much lighter than they used to be, turning grey.

"I will."

"And watch out for yourself."

"I will."

"Try not to be alone. You get cocky."

"I won't."

"And for bloody sake's remember to eat and sleep, okay?"

"I will."

"Good." John smiled, then held out a hand. "This is good-bye then."

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to shake hands. "Good bye." Sherlock choked back a sob. Sherlock pulled John closer by his hand and yanked him into a hug. They held each other close before Sherlock quickly let go and wiped his eyes. He retrieved the gun and put it in John's hand.

All John saw was a blurred outline pat him on the shoulder firmly and quickly walk away with his hands in his coat pockets. He heard a soft sniffing as it moved around the corner of the aisle disappearing. He looked down that the black blur that was a pistol and wept.

Sherlock moved as quickly as he could to leave, trying to see the door through the tears. He pushed open the store doors and heaved himself into the truck, bitterly weeping as he leaned his head on the steering wheel.

And sobbed when he heard the last bullet fire.


End file.
